


This Moment

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Feels, ILYAnniversary2018, Implied Sexual Content, Molly Takes Control, Post-TFP, Romance, Sherlock Has a Slight Breakdown, brief strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Belated celebratory oneshot for the Sherlolliversary! More post-TFP goodness, in which Molly has to take the reins and guide Sherlock through his emotional upheaval. Enjoy!





	This Moment

**Author's Note:**

> You guys… I’m actually quite proud of this. I won’t go into detail, ‘cuz you still have to read it (I mean, you don’t have to, but I’d really like you to). But during yet another rewatch of The Scene™, something struck me about Sherlock’s initial approach, and… oh, I can’t spoil it! Just read, please! And leave a comment, if you would be so kind. Mwah!

Three weeks.

Three bloody weeks, and not a word from him. She'd spoken with John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson—hell, even _Mycroft_ had set aside ten full minutes to give her some answers. She knew the gist of it. Evil, murderous sister, psychotic mind games… a coffin. But these weren't the answers she really wanted, and they didn't come from the person who actually needed to give them.

Well, she'd had enough. No more waiting around for him to pull his head out of his arse. As she made her way out of the hospital at the end of her shift, she pulled out her phone and sent him a text.

_You and I need to talk. In person. Now._

His reply was almost immediate:

_You know where to find me. SH_

Indeed, she did. Jaw set with determination, she made her way directly to Baker Street.

Over the last few weeks, the exteriors had been completely restored, looking almost as if no damage had ever occurred. The interiors, she knew, were another story. Considering how picky Sherlock was, how much he liked everything in his life to be _just so_ , it would be another two weeks at least before the flat was truly habitable. Of course, he would stay there anyway, too stubborn to call anywhere else home, even temporarily.

To Molly’s relief, the door was open, and she was able to slip in unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson. She loved the woman dearly, but she had a tendency to prattle on, and her patience was thin enough already. She crept up the stairs, a bit anxious, though she had been the one to instigate this. Still, one never quite knew what to expect when dealing with Sherlock Holmes, particularly when it came to matters of the heart.

The flat was quiet, dark, and freezing. Apparently, unfinished interiors also meant no heat. She slowly climbed the stairs, listening for any signs of life. Had he gone off to solve a case? Or did he leave intentionally, avoiding the conversation entirely?

Neither, she soon realized. Atop the stairs, the door stood ajar, and upon entering, she spotted the detective lying on a newly purchased sofa, fingers pressed to his chin—a pose she knew well. He was in his bloody mind palace. There would be no talking until he was good and ready to come out and face the real world. Well, she had all night. With Toby gone (same day as the phone call, which still stung quite a bit), there was nothing and no one at home requiring her immediate attention. She would wait. She'd waited three weeks, after all, she could handle another thirty minutes

At least, she hoped it would only be thirty minutes…

Molly moved into the kitchen and set her handbag on the table, then went over to the stove to fix a pot of tea. She poked her head out to check on him when the kettle boiled, in case the whistling alerted him to the presence of another person in the flat. No such luck; he remained oblivious, deep in some corner of his thoughts. She brought her steaming mug into the main room, along with the least dirty dining chair.

Only when Molly was finishing off her second cuppa, absently scrolling through her Twitter feed, did Sherlock finally begin to stir. He sat slowly, his movements precise as always, and met her eyes directly. Molly froze under his gaze; a storm brewed behind their icy hue, a hurricane of emotions for which he was entirely unprepared. As long as she’d known him, and despite his claim to have “divorced” himself from all feeling, she always suspected he felt much more deeply than he let on. As they said, it took one to know one, and considering she typically wore her heart right on her sleeve, it was easy to read him. Well, most of the time… but that was neither here nor there. Regardless of what he said, and perhaps believed, Sherlock _did_ feel. Now, though, he seemed painfully aware of every emotion, though ill-equipped to process and understand them all.

She thought back to her conversation with Mycroft. While John had been the first to contact her, and to apologize for that awful phone call, it was the elder Holmes brother who had given an abridged version of the day’s events. He gave blurred details, a detached report, as if he were briefing one of his agents on an upcoming assignment. It wasn’t good enough, but Molly knew better than to press Mycroft for answers. They would still be sitting in that silent stalemate now.

Judging by the look on Sherlock’s face, he wouldn’t be providing every answer, either. Well… she would settle for the most important ones.

With movements just as cautious, if not quite as graceful, as his had been, Molly stood, set her emptied cup on the mantle, and faced him fully. In the process, she caught, among the many emotions still flashing through his eyes, a vulnerability she had not seen since his faked death. She was seeing Sherlock, open and raw, wholly unsuppressed. But despite her ever-present desire to comfort and support him, tonight he owed her. She could still be gentle, but he would have to earn her support this time.

Slowly, Molly crossed the room, his eyes following her as she moved to sit beside him. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed in an uncharacteristic show of nerves.

“Tell me,” she softly prompted.

And he did. Surprisingly, he talked quite openly about the horrible things he had endured that day. He gave the specifics that were missing from Mycroft’s account, and with all the feeling behind John’s apology.

As he neared his retelling of the coffin debacle, he paused. Molly waited patiently, letting him take several deep breaths. When those deep breaths started to veer more toward ragged hyperventilation, she instinctively put a hand on his arm. He started at the contact, his eyes darting to her hand. Her immediate response was to pull away, but before she could see it coming, his hand covered hers, holding it firmly in place. Then, she noticed the unusually rough texture of his skin, and the faint scars on his knuckles.

“What happened to your hands?” she asked.

He swallowed again. “I-I… erm... you know about the coffin, yes?” Molly met his eyes and nodded once. “What else do you know about it?”

She looked down at his scarred, but still beautiful hands. “That… it was supposed to be mine. That you had to make me say…” she trailed off, still aching from the memory. “Well, you know.”

Sherlock made a small noise of surprise. “Mycroft was more detailed than I expected him to be.”

 _Says a lot,_ she grumbled in her mind. _For a family who claims to be so proficient at seeing details, they really are dreadful at_ giving _them._

“Yes,” Sherlock went on, “it was... meant for you. Eurus led us to believe she had planted explosives throughout your flat, and would set them off if you didn’t say the ‘release code,’” he spat the words out with venom. With another swallow and a slow, shuddering breath, he pressed on. “Until that point, I managed to maintain my typical detached facade. Even as both Mycroft and John reacted to what we endured, I did what I have always done. Pushed all feeling aside, and focused on the _work._

“Then that coffin…” his voice softened, and his eyes grew distant. Haunted. “And a live feed of you on a screen. And… I couldn’t do it.”

“Do… what?”

“Push it aside. I tried—God, I _tried_ —telling you it was for a case, making it seem like such a simple request, I thought it—” He cut off suddenly, shooting to his feet, and began pacing in front of the sofa. “The whole sick, twisted game was about me, my methods, my lack of emotion… she wanted to see how it worked, like I was a bloody lab rat.” The venom was back, contorting his face and hardening his voice. “I had no trouble beforehand, then suddenly, I couldn’t… I couldn’t _not feel_.” Sherlock stopped abruptly in his tracks, looking wildly at her. “Not with you.”

Molly inhaled slowly, willing herself to remain calm. “Why? Why was that so hard?”

“Because it’s _you_ ,” he laughed humorlessly, pacing once again. “You, with your cheery, colorful jumpers, your absurdly morbid jokes, your incomprehensible ability to see right through me—you make it bloody impossible _not_ to feel!” His voice had become manic, almost to a shout. “And then you go and take almost the whole three minutes, and I thought I would actually have to _bury_ you in that fucking coffin! Just when I had figured it out, I would have lost you!”

The silence following his tirade seemed somehow louder than the tirade itself. Sherlock stood still, but for his shaking hands and quick breaths, staring vacantly into space. Molly was having trouble keeping her own breathing steady as she processed his words. It sounded an awful lot like… like he’d actually _meant it._

“Figured what out?” she finally asked in a whisper.

His eyes flew to hers, widened with shock, reminding her again of the Fall. She’d said something about looking sad when he thought John couldn’t see him, then he’d countered with, “ _You_ can see me,” as if that made up for it. And when she’d said that it didn’t count, he’d given her the same, wide-eyed expression he wore now.

“You don’t know,” he mumbled. “I thought… but you see everything… how did you not see this?”

“Not exactly helping your case, Sherlock,” she arched a brow at him, but her irritation didn’t last long. The air buzzed with the promise of _something_ on the horizon, and she was both terrified and exhilarated at the prospect of that _something_. She’d wished for it for so long, dreamed of it, ached for it, but never believed she could be this close. And God help her, she wanted to believe it now… but…

With another deep breath, she said, “You’ll have to help me this time. What is it I’m not seeing?”

He blinked once, twice, then lowered himself until he knelt before her. “Oh, Molly,” he breathed, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine. “I’ve been an absolute idiot. Here I was, still reeling from my own discovery, not even stopping to consider that you might be just as oblivious as I was in regard to my heart.”

Sherlock grasped her hand lightly and pressed it to his chest. She gave an audible gasp as she felt, beneath her fingertips, the rapid, unsteady drumming of his pulse. Her own heart soared, and she met his gaze, warm and tender and completely open.

“Where Moriarty erred,” he spoke again, “my sister was bang on the mark. She knew exactly what—or rather, _who_ —is most important to me. She saw what I had somehow convinced myself wasn’t really there. And though I hated her for putting both of us through this ordeal, I have to admit, one good thing did come of it.” His lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. “I finally realized I am in love with you.”

Molly’s jaw dropped, and tears filled her eyes. For several moments, she couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe. Her thoughts were just as incoherent. _Did he just…? He did, he said… and he meant… oh, my God, he actually did…_

“Molly?” he prompted, his brow furrowed with apprehension.

She gave a short, watery laugh, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, my God, you really do, don’t you? You actually love me!”

Sherlock smiled fully, and cupped her face with one hand, using the other to gently pull hers away from her lips. His eyes flicked down to them and lingered for a moment, causing another delightful shiver. He dragged his gaze back up to hers, eyes dark with a desire that matched hers, and replied in a low voice, “More than anything else in this world.”

And that was the end of Molly’s restraint. With another tear-filled laugh, she launched herself at him, firmly pressing a kiss to his lips. Sherlock grunted from the impact, only just maintaining his balance, preventing them from crashing to the floor. The very next moment, he responded with equal fervor, stealing her breath along with her kiss. It was desperate, it was hungry, it was everything she’d ever dreamed it would be, and more. He clung to her as tightly as she did to him, his hands roaming over her back and shoulders, as if he were memorizing the feel of her.

When they parted for air, he continued to hold her close, his forehead pressed to hers. Molly fumbled awkwardly with her hands for a bit, before settling them against his chest. If she’d thought his heart was racing before, that was nothing compared to the 5K it was running now—much like her own.

“You, erm…” she began shakily, “you never told me what happened to your hands.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “I…” he cleared his throat nervously. “I couldn’t bear the sight of that coffin any longer, so… I might have... torn it to shreds with my bare hands.”

Molly reared back in surprise. “You _what?”_

He glanced down for a moment, then met her eyes while nibbling on his bottom lip in the most adorable and infuriatingly effective pout she had ever seen. It took all her strength to keep from kissing that pout away. She settled for grinning widely and brushing the curls from his face.

“You bloody moron,” she murmured affectionately.

“I’ve been called worse,” he shrugged.

She huffed in feigned exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”

His eyes met hers with a wicked gleam. “I have a few suggestions.”

“Do you?” she smirked, playing along.

“Mm,” he hummed while nodding his head, and brought his lips just above hers. “They do require relocating from here to the bedroom. More sanitary,” he added in a somber voice, though his eyes gave his humor away.

Molly giggled before adopting a playfully serious expression herself. “Well, as a medical professional, sanitation is very important to me. We’d best move along quickly, then.”

Sherlock beamed. “My thoughts exactly.” In one fluid movement (how the _hell_ did he do that?), he stood to his feet and swept her up into a bridal hold in the same motion. She squealed in delight, her arms winding around his neck. “After all,” he said, truly serious this time, “we’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“None of that,” she shook her head once, softly brushing her fingers along his cheekbone. “I have no regrets, Sherlock, _none_.”

His answering smile was so tender, so full of adoration, she couldn’t help but kiss him quite thoroughly. And as they eased their way into his bedroom, Molly silently reiterated her statement. No regrets, not a single one. Perhaps they might have communicated better. Perhaps they could have reached this point sooner. But the wait, the hurt, the tears and the hardship… made this moment all the sweeter.


End file.
